


your sinner in secret

by shardmind



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Escorts, M/M, Minor Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, Mutual Masturbation, No Character Death, Phone Sex, dalian don't read this it's for your own good, just a heads up is you're looking for plot you won't find that shit here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25404982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shardmind/pseuds/shardmind
Summary: He hates that this is what he’s been reduced to; clandestine encounters between business trips, late-night rendezvous where the liquor flows fast but Castiel’s heart beats faster, always the risk that they could get caught. It’d make the papers, maybe not the front page, but it’d be there. Dean understands, toys with it on just the right side of risk, wears his kiss bruised lips like a brand, want visible in every inch of him. He’s gorgeous. Castiel needs him.escort!dean au
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	your sinner in secret

**Author's Note:**

> as always, thank you to [ari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilyasomina/pseuds/ilyasomina) for being an absolute gem and handing me the ending for what was originally just a messy 500 word warm up of two guys getting each other off over the phone. her brain— i swear, perfection exists. also, happy (early) birthday ♥

Castiel rocks into his spit slicked fist. It’s inelegant, sloppy, and ideally wouldn’t be happening this way; one hand against the cold bathroom tile and the other around his own cock. Ideally, he wouldn’t have had to leave in the first place. Wouldn’t have to touch himself as Dean’s voice reverberates through his cell phone speaker, a moan caught on the edge of a breath, distorted by the miles between them. Nothing could ever compare to the real thing. Silence hangs in the humidity, permeated by the sound of both their breathing, ragged and heavy and so far out of sync. The weight of how depraved he must look settles deep in his belly, searing hot and spurring him onward. It’s been a week since they last saw one another and Castiel can feel it.

He hates that this is what he’s been reduced to; clandestine encounters between business trips, late-night rendezvous where the liquor flows fast but Castiel’s heart beats faster, always the risk that they could get caught. It’d make the papers, maybe not the front page, but it’d be there. Dean understands, toys with it on just the right side of risk, wears his kiss bruised lips like a brand, want visible in every inch of him. He’s gorgeous. Castiel needs him.

Last time he’d taken him in the back seat of his Mercedes. The time before that, on a yacht in Crete. Before that, against the floor to ceiling windows of his office. They plague him, the dreams, and only make him long for that which he cannot have. At least, not yet. 

The bathroom of his hotel is pristine, bleach whitened and with a mirror not speckled by the residue of shaving foam. He misses the grime of Dean’s place, misses the handprints left in the steam and marks left like a treasure map on his own body after. Castiel lets himself picture it; how Dean would touch himself, how Dean would touch him. He takes the image and runs. Maybe he’s biting his lip in a sorry attempt to hold himself back from crying out, or maybe he’s not even bothered to push his jeans down further than his hips (like Castiel himself hasn’t, in too much of a rush to even think about the creases to his slacks). Maybe he’s naked, arching his back off the mattress. Maybe he’s been waiting for this all day.

“Cas, _Fuck_ —” His movements falter at Dean’s name for him, another kind of warmth pulling at his gut; softer, but no less overwhelming. “—want you.” 

He bites back his own expletive. The urge to cry out burns in his throat, to tell Dean that he’ll be back soon. To tell Dean anything he wants to hear. The edge is so _so_ close and Castiel wants nothing more than to surrender to it, to bring himself right to the precipice and throw himself off. Dean whines.

“Fucking _say something_!”

His stomach clenches and drops, arousal now a rampant blaze soaring through his veins. He’s never been one to deny Dean Winchester. He spits into his palm once more, laboured breathing the soundtrack to their debauchery. 

“You have the most beautiful face when you come. I’ve never seen anything like it” He grits out, forcing his eyes shut so he can better picture it. Staring at the tiles hadn’t been doing him any favours. There are so many ways to imagine it, Dean falling apart under the diligent attention of Castiel’s fingers, his mouth, his cock. He throbs at the thought and increases his pace, grips himself a little tighter. On the other end of the line, Dean gasps, a moan bitten off behind his teeth. It only fuels him further. “ _Fuck_ —It’s been too long. I’ve been thinking about it ever since I left. You’re incredible.” 

“Holy _shit, Cas_ —”

“I hate doing this because it’s nothing compared to you. I wish— _god_ —I would do anything to be there right now, Dean. Tell me,” He pauses, letting himself bask in the sound of Dean’s whimpers as each one shoots straight to his cock. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Castiel weighs up if blowing off his 8 am with his board of directors and catching a flight to Kansas would be worth the wrath from Meg when she’s forced to tackle the wolves alone. “When you’re alone, do you pretend it’s me?”

Dean cries out, trying to choke back a groan as he hits his peak, a string of colourful expletives falling from his lips. It’s slow and drawn out and Castiel wonders if that’s the whole point. Seconds pass agonisingly slowly and he’s still painfully hard, stroking faster now he’s painfully close. He can hear Dean preening through the phone, coming down slowly, breath still falling in short pants. He hums and the vibration of it settles somewhere beneath Castiel’s ribs. He’s almost there when Dean opens his mouth.

“Do you?”

That’s all it takes.

“ _Dean!_ ” He squeezes his eyes closed so hard that patterns float behind them, an overlay to the fabricated visions of his sex mussed companion guiding him past the point of no return. Castiel almost trips as his knees weaken, melted by the ferocity of his release, but catches himself, forearm pressed to the cold glass as his entire body throbs at the rush of endorphins. It’s not even half as good as the real thing but knowing Dean is there, that Dean heard him, that Dean got off to the sound of his voice, makes up for that. 

It takes a while for his heart to recover.

There are two clicks, an inhale and then a deep exhale. Castiel can almost taste the ash on his breath from here. He's experienced it so many times all he needs to do to picture it is close his eyes. Dean purrs, content. "I needed that." 

"I'm glad to be of service." 

A pause, a graze of a half-smile, a laugh. "You know that's my line." 

"And you know I wish it wasn't." He looks down at his mess, his stained palm and splattered tiles, and wishes that he didn't feel the telltale clutches of shame grip his shoulders. Dean laughs and, for the first time, Castiel catches his own reflection in the mirror. He looks old, worn out, craving a high he can't quite reach and a part of him hates that he's so reliant on it—on Dean. This chase of the unattainable 

"I know," His sigh comes through crackled by the speaker as if his mouth is too close to the mic. Dean doesn't like this conversation and neither does he but, in the post-orgasm clarity, Castiel can't help himself. The need for validation erodes him, leaving nothing but a shell behind. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you keep coming back. You're my favourite."

"Dean—"

There's a creak of a door and, for a second, Castiel’s bliss melts into fear. Meg's found him and is demanding answers, Gabriel's here to go over plans before the morning, Balthazar's bored and has decided to walk in unannounced. A myriad of scenarios flash through his head, shrouding the part of his brain that identifies the noise didn't come from his hotel. It’s not until he hears a southern drawl mumble out a _well, if it ain’t my lucky day_ that he snaps back to reality. 

Oh. Right. That.

"Hi Benny—" Dean calls out, more to his guest than to him, his real voice replaced by something else entirely. Sultry, deep. It sends a shiver down the column of his spine, a delightful shiver that tails off into something else. A hollow bite gnaws at him. He’s heard this side of Dean before, revelled in it once. before, when kisses cost extra. After a while, it stopped being about sex and money and twisted, evolved, into whatever it is they have now. He wishes it were different, wishes Dean was his.

He knows what's coming next. What Dean will say next. How did they even get here? 

"Cas, I gotta go. I'll text you."

A beep of a disconnected call and it's over, goodbye clinging to the tip of his tongue. 

The only evidence that it happened at all, rinsed away as Castiel washes his hands. He can't even bring himself to look at his reflection, knowing the person staring back is the person he hates the most. 

**Author's Note:**

> post-nut depression hits different
> 
> title from carly rae jepsen's run away with me.  
> find me on twitter @shardminds


End file.
